


Out of Sight

by illegible



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Another improv fic haha, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-31 04:54:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12124953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: For the Inquisitor, what started with gathering information made him the holy man of a faith he never believed in. For Lace Harding, defending her home led her to become the Left Hand's favorite agent. Overwhelmed by chaos and mysticism and ancient histories, they find comfort in being ordinary people together against a churning sky.





	1. Chapter 1

He is not the best hunter from clan Lavellan, but they have other reasons to send him away.

Mahanon was never built to be a warrior. His parents didn’t find this concerning until it became clear he couldn’t shoot an arrow accurately to stop the Blight either. Nenni, his mother, insisted that he go through knife exercises every day until he was sure his arms would fall off.

“Do you want everyone to think your father and I raised a lazy child?” she would ask when he faltered, “Somebody who feasts on tusket brought by good sons while our clan struggles to survive? No? Then keep going.”

He got better eventually, thank the Creators. When they’re near enough to the ocean he prefers fishing, and prides himself on being able to keep pace with raiders of Hercinia. But while they’re edging past the Tirashan or crossing the Silent Plains, it’s his responsibility to help bring down larger, slower game. He knows how to exploit weakness in gurn hide, which angle to attack a bear and when to leap back, how to skin a varghest.

The first man he killed was a bandit, thin in patchy clothes with rotten teeth. Just one of a larger band of thieves with battle whirling around him, Mahanon’s own response was almost automatic. It didn’t seem so different at first from practice, dull blades and familiar gestures. His success was exhilarating, even fun. But when the dagger plunged into that small, tight stomach there wasn’t even a scream. Wide eyes, slack mouth. A sound like breath or something more vital escaping.

He should have slit the man’s throat to make it faster, but Mahanon's hands were hot and slick and he kept wondering if this was somebody’s father, somebody’s friend. Shrunken gums, brown-black grin. It must have hurt.

He’d been sixteen at the time.

Junlen, three years the older brother who favored longswords and shields over more intimate weapons, tried but couldn’t understand.

“It was necessary,” he said, broad where Mahanon was narrow, strong where he faltered, certain when everything else seemed lost. “They would have killed you, or Shiya, or Gemen. They would have picked your corpses clean and that's how we would have found you. Can you imagine mother and father?” Mahanon could only shake his head. The sound was still in his ears.

Keeper Istimaethoriel invited him to walk with her, so he did. The curves and ticks of her _vallaslin_ mark her for Dirthamen the scholar, the Silent One, the twin. Her hair had long since gone white and veins etched delicately across the backs of her hands.

“You are Mythal’s with good reason, _da’len_ ,” she told him quietly. “You see everyone. There will never be a day when death comes easy to you. This is a good thing.” She paused, eyes flitting aside so he couldn’t see the moon caught in them. “My First… Ellana struggles. She should learn.”

Ellana was graceful as a doe but no child of Ghilan’nain she. Her mother dreamed of Falon’Din standing beside the cradle when her daughter was very young. She said he bent to kiss her brow and that it was a gentle gesture. A kind gesture. 

Ellana’s eyes were the last blue left before black. To Mahanon, they always seemed cold.

He had no answer for his Keeper. After a time, she continued. “We cannot live on the outskirts forever. Please. Be our emissary among the settlements. We know you watch the humans whenever we draw near. This is my blessing. Study them. See if there are ways we can make peace.”

There is no Dalish word for what he was, no standard position. Nonetheless, it was a role he embraced.

He introduces himself as a scout, a negotiator. He gets permission to sell wares on city streets and in alienages across Thedas.

At twenty-six, Mahanon the spy is sent to watch the conclave. He kisses his parents, embraces his brother. Tweaks his niece Mihri’s nose and promises spices for her mother when he returns. The First, he offers a theatrical bow with his word to bring back something uselessly Orlesian. Ellana smiles and even blushes as she looks away.

Istimaethoriel remains solemn when she tells him to be safe. Mahanon laughs, barking like a wolf confident in his tricks, and assures her they will never catch him.


	2. Chapter 2

The Hinterlands have gone silent. Even independent factions of mage and templar fighters want to know the Divine’s verdict. They hold their breath as one and turn West, anticipating without hope.

It can only last so long.

Lace takes advantage of the lull to go hunting. There are sheep by Lake Luthias and it isn’t far. Her parents are hungry... Maker knows she is too. If the haul is good enough she might even send word to the Crossroads so they can retrieve a few carcasses.

It’s positively frigid this morning, but the sun is out. She can see air turn to mist with each exhale, keeps her footsteps silent over pine needles. No one can know she’s here.

Lace has already killed a few fighters these past months. Mages before templars. Her first actually broke the door down. Talked too fast, stave shaking, demanding father hand over their grain and smoked meat for the winter. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen, five years her junior. Only a boy, he still threw fire when father tried to reason with him. Made mother cry. 

That table was a gift from their neighbors, something to show they were as much part of Redcliffe as anyone. There were griffons carved into the legwork, unfurled as engravings. She used to run her hands over them as a child. Charcoal, now.

Lace who hadn’t been seen yet, Lace who would rather repel someone with a line than a blow, Lace whose very name was chosen to suggest delicacy, retrieved the bow from her bedroom and shot that fucker dead.

When templars came later with demands of their own, she shot them too.

Her family was safe. They would _stay_ safe.

Being a dwarf, of course Lace doesn’t dream. Her understanding of the world is largely literal, physical, practical. She passively observes temperature differences between sun and shadow while she hurries between trees. More than that, she keeps her ears open for the clip of hooves on stone. What ultimately catches her attention is smell. Grassy, sweet. A trace of dung.

Her ram stands at the water’s edge, head bowed to drink. The white and brown mane clumps where it’s gotten wet. Dull, horizontal eyes glaze past her completely. Its flanks twitch to ward off flies.

Lace is still far away. She doesn’t even get to notch her arrow before the sky splits open.

Ears thrown back, legs rigid, muzzle open to scream. She turns to find the source of animal terror and finds green veins threading the sky like lightning, like a membrane, concentrating where a needle of light is forced through. The Fade drips down in beads, splits open. She doesn’t scream but something does, something huge, and she wonders if it might be the Stone or the Maker or something more primal. Above her it only yawns wider, flesh dragged by a fishhook bleeding out.

There's scrambling, wingbeats, wind. Everything that can get away wants to. Lace lacks their understanding but in her heart it’s the end of the world and her parents are alone and she can't trust anything for protection.

She keeps her eyes on the ground and runs.


End file.
